Ten Things
by Suki
Summary: She hated that he reversehated her. [SanMir]


_Disclaimer: I don't own Inuyasha, the movie Ten Things I Hate About You, or "The Taming of the Shrew." I do own several copies of Shakespeare, however. One can never own enough Shakespeare. ::end plug::_

_Author's Notes: Thinking about the love-hate relationship between Sango and Miroku, namely, Miroku's all the love and Sango's all the "hate"! _

_Summary: She hated that he reverse-hated her._

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_**Ten Things**_

**by Suki**

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She hated his smile. 

The way it plucked at his mouth mischievously and made him look so _in control_ and _mature_ and _knowing_. He threw it around with a vengeance. He threw it at her. It made her want to take cover under a nearby shrub, where she could peep out from beneath the prickly leaves. It made her want to cry, "Watch where you throw those things!"

They're dangerous.

--

She hated his neck.

She insisted that he walk in front of her rather than behind, so that he couldn't reach out and grab her. But then she had to look at his neck, rising for the purple slopes of his shoulders, and wonder why it looked so smooth and taut and firm. She marveled at how it twisted elegantly so he could look at her and grin.

It was graceful, and she thought – traitorously – it'd be a nice place to hide.

--

She hated his hands.

They always sought her most inappropriately. They always sought _everybody _(female). But what she couldn't help noticing, in the electrified seconds between grope and slap, was that they were clean and large. Smooth but for the subtle veining betraying youth and strength.

That one palm could cover her hand and swallow it, as if it belonged to him.

--

She hated his eyes.

Lavender-blue-black-blue-lavender – whatever the hell color they were! She couldn't figure it out, and that was a torturous affair. Because she couldn't look at him long before she was staring, and staring was inviting trouble.

She couldn't look at him long enough.

--

She hated his hair.

It was always so shiny-smooth, and the little wisp, like a lick of black gathered at the back, drew her attention to the skin-softness behind his ears. She hated it because his hair was a mystery; tied and put away.

And she might – just _might_ –do something rash to have him pull it down.

--

She hated his voice.

It was unnerving but natural, like midnight or the bottom of the sea. She heard it, too, like the sea: a rocking, shimmering surface; a depth impenetrable. And she hated-yet-wanted to dive deep. And when his voice found her and washed over her, it was warm, comforting, and primordial. And it was especially deceiving because it was so calm.

She might drown.

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She hated the way he moved.

Slowly, lithely, fluidly, like a swimmer. Robes suited him, because they were laid back, too. She couldn't stand his grace against her jerkiness, and she thought it a pity that he had to be so damned _lovely_ because it only made her all the more fumbling. It wasn't fair that his body always did him justice.

It wasn't fair that his body teased her terribly.

--

She hated that he was shrewd.

The way he would sit, and think, and sit, and think some more, and _then_ speak – he only spoke on two occasions, when it mattered and when he asked for an heir – and it was always wisdom, always a revelation. It came to him like breathing, this being clever, and she hated it really when he used it against her.

When he pressed against her and was clever. That's when she really hated it.

--

She hated his goodness.

Because his goodness filled up his eyes, and his limbs, and his neck, hair, and voice. It filled up his smile, too, when he was feeling generous. Because his goodness seeped from him, and it made her look at her feet, kick the dirt, and stand in awe. His goodness made her trust, and fall, and get up, and fall again. It made her chest swell with heat. And she couldn't, for the life of her, figure out why his goodness, after everything, just plain refused to die.

It made her want to weep.

--

She hated that he reverse-hated her.

She hated that underneath shallow passes and stony-faced platitudes, he held the vision of her in his eyes tenderly. Pried at her calloused covering to find her soft and vulnerable core. She hated that he saw it there because she couldn't protect herself, not in the least. And she hated that he could bleed-love her so that everyone could see. That he didn't get angry and yell obscenities when she instinctively and heartlessly struck him.

And she hated that when she pushed him away, he just smiled-over-heartache so that she couldn't be angry with – couldn't really _hate him_ – after all.

--

And when nights were quiet and Shippou was settled; when Inuyasha was sated and Kagome was placid; she would lay awake under spring trees and run them over and over behind her eyelids until hate was love, and he gathered all these things to him and made them perfect and pure.

Then he'd stir.

Stretch-yawn-look over at her.

Wink.

Roll over and go back to sleep.

And start the love-hating all over again.

--

She hated how he could do that.


End file.
